


up to its old tricks

by howardly



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Childhood Memories, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecurity, M/M, Pining, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24604552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howardly/pseuds/howardly
Summary: Marcus had said that it gets in your head, lays its eggs, but he knows better. Knows that it wouldn't be there at all without some type of foundation.
Relationships: Marcus Keane/Tomas Ortega
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	up to its old tricks

**Author's Note:**

> written right after s1 yeeears ago and unfinished. posting it as a one shot and might add on later. mostly a tomas character study right now with some hints of marcus/tomas.

Marcus had said that it gets in your head, lays its eggs, but he knows better. Knows that it wouldn't be there at all without some type of foundation. 

\---

When he recalls it two days later, the first thing he thinks is, I don't even have knives that size. He probably doesn't even own two knives. Definitely not a set. 

He hasn't mentioned to Marcus the exact details of that night. Doesn't even know how to go about saying it or bringing it up casually. Though Marcus has revealed much more on much less-no prompting, no queues. Honesty is a two way street and all that. 

The demon placed me in a hallucination of my childhood home and then manifested itself as you and every doubt I've had in my head for the past six months was spit out of your mouth. 

But that's all it was, a hallucination. Just another view of himself from an unflattering angle. 

\---

St. Bridget's is a gallant thing. Or so Bishop Egan says, so you should wield it as such. It allows in twice the light, twice the parishioners, twice the admirers. A rising star placed inside an already bright room. He loses sleep figuring out how to fill up that much space.

\--- 

He gets home late. Too late really. He misses meeting up with Marcus by hours and has to call Olivia to say that he won't be home to watch Luis. The snow is heavy and the elevator is slow and his restlessness is high. 

He makes short work of walking into his apartment and roughly closing the door. A sole lamp is on and the light low, just enough to see a figure curled on the couch, asleep. 

He had sent a text of apology to Marcus ten minutes into his assignment and then three hours later, with no sign of resolution, he had considered their meeting a moot point and postponed. He hadn't texted to confirm that exactly but neither had Marcus. 

Marcus' back is to him but he sees the long line of his neck and his stockinged feet peeking out of opposite ends of the thin blanket he has wrapped himself in. He turns to the wall and bumps his fist against the heater until he hears the whoosh of air then goes to his room to grab an extra comforter. 

He pads over to the couch while shaking out the blanket, not looking up or really paying attention. His mind feels foggy. He needs to eat. He makes to throw the comforter over Marcus but the shining of his eyes stops him. Awake then. 

They fall asleep on the couch together with Lawrence of Arabia playing on the television. Well, that's what he assumes in the morning anyway. It's the only thing that accounts for his dream. That strange thing between awake and asleep and any extraneous sounds get filtered through until it feels like something lived in and completely imaginary all at the same time.

Parched and determined, surrounded by sand, he finds that he's Emir Faisal. Bitterly, he thinks, even his subconscious paints him as royalty. Does he really see himself so worthy and venerable?

"Where are you going, Lieutenant?" he asks. Of course he knows the answer, but he wishes to gain an insight into his young charge. 

"To work your miracle," Lawrence (Marcus) answers. 

Tomas rejoins, "Blasphemy is a bad beginning for such a journey."

Marcus stares steadily back, flinty and smirking.

\---

He grows up in a neighborhood deemed 'the town of lost souls' and feels doomed from the start. He remembers this later, lightly debating the difference between lost souls and lost causes with Angela Rance, and thinking, none. No differences. None at all. He cycles through the saints over and over to no immediate end. 

He is eleven and he stabs the knife into his shoulder. Pulls it out as quickly as it goes in. A mistake. It smarts immediately and the blood is staining his shirt. Only giving his grandmother more work to do. 

He wraps the knife in a tea towel, slips it under the bed, and runs to her. He collects the knife later and knows this is something he will not be telling Father Ruiz. Something he doesn't want to say in confession. 

He will take his absolution somewhere else. 

His grandmother goes out for errands and he makes the short walk down with the still wrapped knife and a candle in his bag. The shrine stands before him and Santa Muerte looks on.

"Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte, por favor guíame."

He places the candle on the edge, strikes a match to light the wick, and sinks the knife into the tender wax until the glint of the blade is gone. 

For all his trouble, he's left with ragged stitches and an ache that runs down his arm. It all eventually fades into a small line of a scar, barely noticeable and rarely thought about. 

\---

He offers Marcus his apartment, willingly this time. Gives him a key and everything. Marcus declines, but he keeps the key. 

Marcus' apartment is a small studio not far from his own. A strategically placed bookshelf here, a small table there, and a bed pushed into the far right corner provide some illusion of division. 

The main draw for Marcus might have been the view. The location isn't Gold Coast by any means but it faces a side of Lake Michigan anyway. A wall consisting mainly of windows showcases the water and the scattered rocks. Picturesque and desolate. The apartment will be hell during the winter if the heating doesn't pull through. Thinks that there are a myriad of ways to stay warm and he doesn't make any of these thoughts known.

\---

The confessional door closes and then opens just as quickly. He hears the rustling of a rain jacket and the creak of the bench as someone sits down. 

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. And it has been, oh…four years since my last confession." 

"Hm." 

"Y'know, I've found that confessional booths can be quite beautiful. I've seen very intricate ones around the world. They remind me a bit of miniature mountains. Do you like mountains, Father?" 

"I've never been to any. And I don't like snow much, so---" 

"Is that why you didn't help me shovel the sidewalk last week?" 

"Oh, no. That was on purpose. I figured you were more than capable." 

Marcus lets out a guffaw at that. Tomas smiles and looks through the lattice grille to see Marcus grinning right back. He faces forward again and asks, 

"When did you get back?" 

"Yesterday." 

"I didn't see you yesterday." 

"That's right, yeah." 

He's about to ask why but Marcus just sighs and says, "Didn't want to bother you. You were busy." He pauses. "I think we have another case. Can the king leave his castle?" 


End file.
